


Sugar, sugar.

by floatawaysomedays



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Ice Cream Shop AU
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2013-07-24
Updated: 2013-07-24
Packaged: 2017-12-21 05:05:35
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 773
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/896130
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/floatawaysomedays/pseuds/floatawaysomedays





	Sugar, sugar.

“It’s your third trip  _this week_!” Gabriel shouts over the partition. “It’s only Wednesday. _I_  don’t even like ice cream that much.”

It’s also July, and there isn’t any air conditioning.

Aaand cue the record breaking temperatures, folks.

The system broke down over a week ago, and the repairman seems to keep ‘forgetting’ that they need him to actually show up and  _fix_  the fucking thing. If Cas has to call that idiot one more time, he’s going to get the wrenches out  _himself_. It’s only noon, and the factory is sweltering. The humidity is oppressive. Cas’s shirt is disgusting. He’s disgusted with everything.

There’s only a few solutions to this problem. The first one that came to mind was to shut the whole place down, which, yeah, not going to happen. Cas is a manager, yes, but he still has to answer to higher ups that would skin him alive if they shut down and lost production for an entire day.

The other solution includes going around the corner, and ordering ice cream to bring back to keep everyone quiet and happy.

Cas is not above bribery.

That’s the best idea, to be completely honest, because there’s a green-eyed  _god_  that will smile and make polite conversation about the weather and favorite flavors while he gets your order ready, and Cas could use a smile right about now. The guy’s tips could probably put someone through college. Cas has watched several women stuff ten dollar bills in his glass jar while batting their eyelashes and biting their bottom lip.

It’s _ridiculous_.

Cas is definitely not  _thinking_  about writing his number on something and sticking it in that jar. Or anywhere else. He did not write his number down on a crumpled napkin from yesterday’s order and decide last minute to shove it in his pocket before taking orders. That would be ridiculous.

He holds his notepad in one hand, the pen poised over the paper, and swipes an arm across the sweat forming on his forehead all over again. Barely holds back the urge to roll his eyes at Gabriel. “Do you want anything or not?”

“No. I refuse to be a part of your ..pining or whatever this is.”

“Fine.”

Cas turns away from the workstation and writes down chocolate moose tracks, heavy on the syrup, because Gabriel will be an insufferable bastard if he’s the only one on the floor not cruising on a sugar high.

Well, at least they’ll be cooler.

Ten minutes, a quick chat with Anna, and one brush with death because of oncoming traffic later, and Cas is pushing the glass door open into air conditioned  _heaven_.  It must be at least twenty degrees cooler inside the shop. The small bell jingles overhead and  _almost_  drowns out the pleased, pathetic, whimpering noise he makes as the cold hits him.

Cas can’t bring himself to care if anyone heard. Can’t even care that he’s standing in the middle of the floor and sighing like an impossible weight was just lifted from his shoulders.

A strangled sound comes from behind the cash register, a chair crashes to the floor, and,  _oh_ , somebody  _was_  listening. “Uhh. Welcome to The Shake Place. How can I..err, help you?”

His hat is flipped around backwards today, the matching black apron folded and tied around his waist should have his name on it somewhere, but it never does.

Cas is still trying to puzzle that one out.

He pulls the list from his shirt pocket, and carefully unfolds it. He’s standing at the counter when the guy snaps his fingers, the tension from earlier is suddenly gone; replaced by recognition. “I-”

“Oh, wait. You’re the guy from the factory around the corner, right? You were in here yesterday. It’s Cas, isn’t it?” Cas barely nods before the guy sticks his hand over the counter and really smiles for the first time since Cas noticed him. “I thought so. I’m Dean, by the way.”

 _Huh_ , Cas thinks. Dean hasn’t initiated contact with anyone else like this, not that Cas has watched or payed attention to the way he conducts himself with the other customers.

Again,  _ridiculous_.

Dean has a strong grip when they shake hands. There’s calluses where there shouldn’t be if Dean was just working in a store. He has white scars littered on his forearms and the knuckles on his right hand.

But they’re nice hands. Beautiful, even, peppered as they are. Cas definitely does not touch the napkin folded neatly inside the right pocket of his jeans and think about pushing it across the counter into capable hands. 

“Hello, Dean.”


End file.
